


THE CURIOUS INCIDENT OF THE CAT IN THE BOOKSHOP (or Aziraphale's Fake Death)

by Honmyo_Seagull



Category: Good Omens (TV), Highlander: The Series
Genre: Best Friends, Cat Lovers, Friends to Lovers maybe in a few more centuries because you can't rush things you know…, Friendship, Friendship/Love, God probably engineered the whole incident, M/M, Methos broadens his horizons, Methos is not a mariage counselor, aziraphale is oblivious, book lovers, crowley is jealous, mildly irreverent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29105919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honmyo_Seagull/pseuds/Honmyo_Seagull
Summary: Nothing has changed, really, as life resumes in Aziraphale's Bookshop. God might have to tweak the events a little, using an immortal and a cat to fix that.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) starting to show, Duncan MacLeod/Methos (Highlander) implied off-screen
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	THE CURIOUS INCIDENT OF THE CAT IN THE BOOKSHOP (or Aziraphale's Fake Death)

**Author's Note:**

> AUTHORS NOTE: Not my characters, obviously. Giftfic for Meenoo, chat extraordinaire, mistress of Satan, who inspired the feline in this fic. Set after the TV series.

**** **_The Curious Incident of the Cat in the Bookshop_ **

**(or _Aziraphale’s fake Death_ ) **

_It’s a fact that if it has taken a near apocalypse for an angel and a demon to actually admit they were friends after six thousand years, you’ll need other exogenous causes to make them realize they love each other very very much indeed. It’s all in the tweaking of events._ (God, voice-overing as usual.)

**Crowley. (Thwarted romantic. Hopelessly in love with an innocent. Cardinally jealous, but hey, he has an excuse. He’s a demon after all.)**

Soho is devilishly, miraculously, free from traffic congestions, these days. Cars run smoothly. The sidewalk is quite easy to walk. Even at rush hour. A few local channels have addressed the little miracle, principally because of the resulting overcrowding in the neighboring areas. Nobody would have the idea to link that with the newly continued presence of a Bentley in the proximity of a particular bookshop.

“So, what’s the plan now?” Crowley had asked very soon after their apocalyptic adventure.

“Tea, at the shop? Every Tuesday?” Aziraphale had offered, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. When not so long ago meeting clandestinely once in a blue moon felt like a highly illicit affair for him. After all, nobody, neither angel nor demon, will dare come after them, these days. Their wearing-faces little trick was _neat_.

Crowley had sighed, half relief, half satisfaction. After all, he is a demon. God will forgive him for being a bit greedy.

So, finally, he ends up popping up any other day.

“Can’t remember which day with a Y you said,” he simply justifies _each time_.

Aziraphale snorts, soft like feathers, and starts tea _each time_ anyway without further comment.

So, this is their new normal: Crowley basically lives at the bookshop half the time and Aziraphale beams any time he sees him enter the store. Beams. So bright and warm it’s become some pavlovian reaction to smile back.

Who would have thought? (Except maybe God, but she never says anyone what she thinks, so… Yup, ineffable, as Aziraphale would say.)

When you think about it, the most astonishing thing is… Meeting the angel was an honest mistake, in fact. If you care to picture the scene, you’ll see it, really: that instrument of blaming flaming sword? Fire of God or brimstone? Potato or potayto? Frankly, from afar Crowley had thought Aziraphale was another demon having a spat with the hoomans. Before he walked on him later, of course, only to see the difference (and no more sword, by the way). Till he had to start to squint to see through all the divine whiteness of Aziraphale’s wings and his being as he got closer.

You think he wears the sunglasses to hide his snake eyes, really? To look _cool_? Or because he’s gone native! Ho, ye of little faith. He _invented_ them! He wears them since 45 to be able to look at Aziraphale in spite of this radiance. (And they say snakes are blind. Ha!) Or hide tears, sometimes. The Deluge and That Guy Jesus’s death did a number on him, honestly. He’s learned from that. It wouldn’t have looked cool to show oneself teary-eyed in front of the other demons either. (Do you imagine the ridicule?)

And honestly, if he has stuck around even after realizing his mistake, it’s all the angel’s fault, taking him under his wing like that at first sight! You reap what you sow, after all. Give protection once and see how protective of you the other party gets, afterwards, huh? Do try. Pay it forward, and all that. Never understood why no angel ever promoted the idea better to thwart all the demons’ plans, though. It’s what he would have done if he were still on the good side.

Anyway, exponential had been the key word in his relationship with the angel. Exponential. The number of times he started looking for (and looking out for) the angel got _exponential_. So much so that for centuries he kept seeking out Aziraphale. They’d been _almost_ past denying they knew each other (baby steps), and the _arrangement_ still stood not even months ago. Till the Apocalypse.

But there’s no need for an _arrangement_ anymore. They’ve taught their respective people to let them do their thing. Progress. Why should progress be only for mortals after all?

One day, Aziraphale says, from behind his teacup:

“I don’t really understand why you’re here so often.” It sounds like the angel is afraid to ask so he just _declares_. “You don’t even read books! You’ve said so yourself.”

“Come on, I love your bookshop! Why do you think I stopped Armageddon!”

And it’s not exactly some gratuitous jest or boast. Crowley is twisting the facts a bit, but that’s what his kind does. Alternate truth, demons call this. Never thought the humans would catch the bug, too. (Hi, Donald!)

Actually, he’d learned how much the bookshop meant to him when he saw it burning like an inferno. Hadn’t really had the right to set foot in it a lot of times before. But he’d heard Aziraphale prattle about his little shop enough over the years to know it by heart. And yes, he was so relieved when the place was restored. It’s the first destination he wanted to take the Bentley to. So, not exactly a stretch, what he just said. He would have saved it _if he had could_.

“My house is bare save for the plants! I spend all my free time here! Isn’t it proof that I like it?”

“But _why_?” Aziraphale finally finds the courage to insist.

“It’s…” Crowley finds it’s kinda hard to vocalize. “…homey?” he tries.

“Yes, it’s home,” the angel agrees with a soft satisfied sigh and minutely relaxes.

There’s definitively more gusto when he then reaches for one of the lovely-colored small round cakes he presented earlier with pride for their tea. He calls them _macarons_. Apparently, they come from the same country that birthed _crêpes_. The angel hums in delight at his first bite in a bright pink one.

Crowley can’t help but look with a kind of fascination. Can’t explain himself the delight he always feels seeing the angel so happy to indulge himself. (Take that, Famine.) The demon’s chin falls in his palm as he puts his elbow on the corner of table they freed for their tea paraphernalia. Can as well get himself comfortable as he enjoys the show.

“You’re a foodie,” Crowley blurts without really meaning it. Like the thought just popped in his head and he couldn’t keep it for himself. It seems to rejoice him greatly. “They _at last_ invented a word for you.”

“Foodie?” Aziraphale frowns, but Crowley can tell he’s not exactly vexed. “I’m a _gourmet_ , _moi, monsieur_.” A smile peeks under the mild outrage.

But before Crowley can find a rejoinder to push his teasing further, the little bells at the shop’s door jingle in a lively jig.

“I thought you were closed! It’s Sunday!” Crowley mutters, annoyed. “God’s rest and all that?”

The angel rises from his chair to go and get a look at the front, throwing over his shoulder: “Then it must be for you, since there’s no rest for the wicked!”

So, obviously, Crowley follows suit, since Angel kinda has a point. But when they get there, it’s plain to see the newcomer is not a stranger to Aziraphale.

“Ha,” the angel says.

And he sounds _so_ pleased. That’s why Crowley kinda hates the newcomer on sight. Also, he’s a demon. He knows about fishy characters and deception. And he doesn’t buy at all the harmless wimp act.

“Ho, hi! Am I early?”

Short dark hair. Big hawkish nose. Lanky silhouette. Under his long dark grey coat, the newcomer looks like he swims in a ridiculously too big sweater, but his shoulders are larger than they look. He humps the slightest bit in shyness, but his eyes are lively things that don’t miss a thing of his new environment. He makes a show of having his hands full with the big cardboard box he carries but Crowley can see he avoids bumping into shelves crowding narrow alleys with the same grace another would use to avert a sword. (Crowley knows, he’s been a knight.) That guy lies with every bone in his body.

“No, no! Of course not, my friend!” Aziraphale exclaims in _delight_. And, please, remind Crowley how many _millennium s_ it took for Aziraphale to call _him_ his friend? “Come here! Come here! Put it there!”

“Sure!” the guy says with a small smile, making a show of his relieved sigh while letting go of his burden where he’s told. He doesn’t look out of breath at all, for all the picture of the hassled young academic-slash-nerd he tries to convey, Crowley notes. He’s begrudgingly admiring. He has renounced to blend in a long time ago, always erring on the side of flamboyant himself (which paradoxically raises less eyebrows about him).

“It’s an exchange of prisoners,” the angel explains, at once plunging on the box and getting old volumes out of it with affectionate reverence, patting the spine of the books fondly.

“I’m from the Shakespeare and Co. bookstore in Paris,” the newcomer explains in Crowley’s direction, the angel being all but lost in contemplation and forgetting his manners. “I worked there once, a while ago, it belonged to a close friend, then. Got the opportunity to get some shares recently. I’m more of the silent partner type usually, but Aziraphale seems to have some goodies for me too.”

Crowley leans in the direction of the books too, feigning interest to get closer to the angel’s ear:

“Is that one of your human operatives?”

“No! That’s Adam.”

“Adam?” Crowley says, trying to remember the Antichrist’s young face. He’s not that good with faces. All humans’ tend to blur after a few hundred of decades among them. “No, that’s not? He’s not that grown already, surely.”

Aziraphale blinks back into the present at Crowley’s confusion:

“No, not our Adam. My Adam. Adam Pierson. The Adam I knew first. Well, the second I knew, obviously. But before the Antichrist Adam. We’ve known each other for ages,” he whispers back.

Just the name spells trouble, as far as the demon is concerned. (And he is very concerned.)

“You let a Adam in your bookstore? Another Adam? I mean, he was a nice kid in the end, but do your remember the trouble the last one was????”

“And you are?” the newcomer asks, and he sounds more amused than insulted by the hushed exchange he can’t quite follow.

There’s a pause during which Crowley considers how to respond.

“Anthony.”

“Who’s Anthony, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks with the most adorable frown, damn angel. (That’s a bit insulting, though.) “Ho, forgot. Anthony J. Crowley. Right. J. What’s the J stands for? You’ve never told me.”

That one is even harder to spit. Doesn’t even know why he held onto it all these centuries.

“Judas,” Crowley mumbles as low as possible.

Aziraphale looks stunned.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Unfortunately not,” Crowley primly replies to hide his melancholy.

Kiss a guy and he gets arrested. Talk about dumb luck! And then see what they did to him? What God let happen to him? Maybe he held to the name because it’s the only moment in history that he felt he was on the right side of things. That poor guy, really? Who was kind, and more idealistic than an angel, and sad, so that it felt normal to want to offer _anything_ to draw him out of his paltry existence, anything to tempt him into a better, fuller life. Comfort him somehow. Hence the kiss when every other temptation failed. Which is when Pontius’ soldiers had come out of the bushes, God knows why.

And let Crowley tell you about the infamous 30 silver coins? Bullshit. Nobody ever offered beforehand and he never got any after. Never hanged himself either, by the way. Alternate truth is actually a concept with a long history, he comes to realize.

He also can see the angel is going to want to talk to him about this at a later date, too. But let’s stay on track, because Crowley kind of feels Aziraphale, in this splendid little airhead way of his, has overlooked something.

“How long have you known him, exactly?”

“Ho. It’s been a while,” Aziraphale answers without a care in the world.

Adam has been a fixture in his life for God certainly knows how long and it never properly registered how long _exactly_ their acquaintance has been.

There was this time Adam sold him of a copy of Apicius’ long thought lost cookbook in the fourteenth century, must have been the first contact?

Then, it was this never before seen complete set of actual Arthurian archives from the sixth century… Which the angel actually lost soon after in the great fire of London in 1666 because he’d been away running an errand for Crowley and had not been able to protect his bookshop at that time… (Hadn’t talked to the demon for a whole century after that…)

Ho, and the lovely little manuscript of Abélard’s ribald poetry Adam found for him in the eighteenth century, and this very nice set of letters from the painter Burne-Jones, full of quirky doddles, addressed to a doctor Adamson, Adam actually gifted him in the 20’s. Very funny these ones, had made Crowley laugh a lot when he’d shown him, and… For the last decades a very steady exchange of rare books too, that often made Aziraphale shine in front of clients for which he acquired titles whose first printing they’d been looking for, well, forever… And here the penny drops.

“Ho. Hooo. You don’t age,” then angel tells his guest. Who only smirks and arches an eyebrow in a decidedly sardonic way.

_“What_ are you?” Crowley growls from deep in his throat, placing himself between the guest and his angel. He prides himself in doing intimidating very well when he wants to. Only it doesn’t really work, here.

“Ha, busted. Immortal,” the really old guy says, withholding his real name. One thing at a time, OK? “He doesn’t either. Age,” he adds, pointing to Aziraphale. “So I have questions too.”

Huh, an Immortal. That explains things, Crowley realizes. They’re like bonus points, in the Demonic scale of achievement. Make an immortal fall, he can continue to make ravages for centuries. They’re prized targets, but very discreet and hard to find to mess with… And so out of the norm it doesn’t seem to really matter to tell them the truth like they wouldn’t to mere mortals:

“He’s an angel. I’m a demon,” Crowley says, looking up to him over the rim of his dark glasses, showing his eyes.

For the first time, a bit of uncertainty colors the man’s gaze.

“Okaaaaay. I… didn’t see that one coming.” Something hard and cold makes his face stonier. For a second, his age show. Adam Pierson no more, _Methos’_ thousand-year stare pines the demon. “Any relation to Arhiman?” A hand slowly buries itself inside the coat.

OK, this one surprises Crowley a little…

“That Baboon face? He got his ass kicked two decades ago and he’s still licking his wounds in hell, last I’ve heard? Never well-noted downstairs, this one, kills too much, doesn’t damn enough…”

When Crowley trails off, it might be because of the sword suddenly to his throat. It’s not like the blade is going to make too much damage, because behind him, Crowley hears Aziraphale’s sharp intake of breath and the telltale warmth in his lower back speaks of an angelic miracle building. The sensation is comforting. Also, as he puts one finger at the blade to test its edge (well-maintained, undoubtedly razor-sharp), _that_ explains the long coat in summer, the demon muses, as the immortal keeps talking:

“Baboon face?! He killed some of the people I knew, made my… Made the Highlander kill his own pupil. He—”

“ **MEOW!”**

There’s a theory the word _imperative_ was once coined to describe the peculiar tone of a domestic feline in need of attention. And then spread in the military sphere because it was _cat_ chy. (To sum up, cats were imperative before guys like Caesar called themselves _imperator_.) The unexpected sound kinda breaks their dispute’s momentum.

“Here you are!” Aziraphale exclaims.

This is not a beaming smile; this is not a pleased sigh. This is a full megawatt toothy grin on the angel’s face, which is currently turned down towards the tiny thing at Crowley’s feet. The cat raises his cute little nose up in response with an expectant gaze.

There’s too much fur to accommodate such a little body, resulting in a massive amount of fluffiness. The tiny beast is white with a black mask at a jaunty angle on its face and other haphazard black spots that look like pieces of clothing put on in a hurry. The eyes are huge, round, innocent, green marbles, ready to suck you all in their thrall. Admittedly cute, Crowley has always been of the opinion the thing was a dreadful monster.

“How come the pest gets a better welcome than _me_?” he mourns aloud.

He gets completely ignored, as he tends to become when his feline nemesis comes into the picture.

“Ho, a kitty!” the immortal totally unnecessarily comments. Sarcasm battles genuine interest in his voice. His sword fractionally lowers. Apparently kitties are like kiddies. Grown (and even very old) men are reluctant to kill in front of them.

It’s a cat that walked all by himself into the bookstore, one day. The angel isn’t even sure how, Crowley has gathered. Maybe scuttling inside after a client? Or finding a passage from the roof? And the animal keeps coming back and bothering Aziraphale any day of the week, at any hour, as if the angel’s time belonged to him. It took no time at all for it to wrap the divine being around its finger (or cute little paw), generally making Aziraphale bend to his wishes. Crowley has no idea what the angel sees in it.

Also, it has no name yet, since Aziraphale insists the beast is not _his_. (Duh. This is the only point over which Crowley can commiserate with his feline nemesis. Aziraphale can be so dense, sometimes, right?)

Crowley can’t help looking crossly at their immortal guest:

“Let me guess, you like cats too?” Hearing the word _cats_ in his mouth, the furry spawn starts making circles around Crowley’s ankles, to the demon’s utter horror. “Why _always_ my black pants!” Crowley bemoans, knowing already he’ll have to get white hair out of the fabric for days. Other demons mostly leave him be, these days, but he’s not keen to risk a blame for abusive demonic miracles to keep his pants clean. “Take that,” he says, bending over to grab the fur monster by the scruff of its neck, taking upon himself to place it decisively in the unsuspecting immortal’s arms as if handing off a ball of stinky clothes, and seizing the opportunity to get their guest rid of his sword in the same move. It’s very smoothly done, if Crowley can say so.

“Neat,” the immortal somewhat acidly comments.

Aziraphale coos with approval, seeing the animal all ready to cuddle in the new arms, half-closing its eyes.

“Ho, you, little munchkin, you,” the angel softly croons to the cat’s ear, petting the little head. “Look at you, you little fluffykins!” His fingers glide on the soft fur to find a small paw, showing the underside of them for all to see. “Look at these cute little pink beans!”

_Ho, my Lucifer._ _Déjà vu_ , Crowley thinks with a shiver. The last time he’s seen Aziraphale get that gaga over something that wasn’t a book or food, it had been—

“He’s not the Antichrist, stop this.”

“Cats are ours,” the angel says with the weight of certainty. “They love books, poetry is full of them and book lovers love them.”

Crowley barks a mean laugh at this one:

“Cats are ours, no doubt.” He gently seizes the paw to softly press said beans, revealing the hidden sharp weapons: “Look! Murder claws!”

He can’t get enough of Aziraphale’s mildly offended face. Pushing the angel’s buttons is always so much fun. Also, he’s totally right on this one:

“Their thousand-year plan to enslave humans was genius! _Take us into your homes, hoomans; we’ll protect your food from rodents!_ overnight becomes _Feed us, pet us, and adore us, hoomans! You know you love it, slaves!_ Cats are the best of the worst! They _inspire_ demons!”

Methos stoically lets them both fuss and discuss the cat purring appeasingly in his arms. Bizarrely, he feels quite content playing the resting post for the furry thing. The demon might have a point.

“That reminds me,” Aziraphale says. “Sorry, got to feed the cat. Give me both a minute.” The angel then disappears in haste in the direction of the secluded little kitchen corner of the shop, leaving them both.

“Are you going to decapitate me, now?” Methos sourly asks his remaining host. Honestly, he _will_ dare throw the cat right back at this Anthony Judas Crowley’s face if the demon tries anything with the Ivanhoe he cradles for now in the crook of his elbow.

“Nahhhh!” Realizing he indeed still carries the sword, Crowley negligently gets rid of it, propping it against a tower of books in a corner. He even waits a few extra seconds to make sure nothing collapses. “Angel would be pissed if I put blood on his precious books. _Su casa es tu casa_. Tea?” Crowley adds, showing the table corner where the remains of Aziraphale’s and his interrupted little party are gathered. “I know where he keeps the other cups.”

After beat, the old guy sighs and replies:

“Could I rather trouble you for a beer?”

“One demonic miracle coming right up!” Crowley claims. “ANGEL! GET A BEER IN THE FRIDGE FOR YOUR GUEST.”

“Don’t shout, Crowley! You’ll make books fall. I don’t have beer in the fr— Never mind, found it,” they hear from the kitchenette.

They’re all civilized again, when the angel comes back from the kitchen with beer and a little plate of tuna in hands. Methos can see for himself how fickle cats are when the furry critter leaves his arms as soon as the prospect of food appears. But, hey, beer! He would have let the cat go anyway.

When the conversation resumes, Crowley has to admit that Adam Pierson is an interesting guy, and devious, at that, if you believe some of the anecdotes he recounts, now that he’s really free to explain exactly to Aziraphale how he procured some of the pieces he brought the angel over the years. The immortal is snarky as hell. It’s annoying to realize Aziraphale has a type.

It’s also obvious the angel is having a good time; he hangs to their guest’s every word. Crowley rapidly feels a tad left out.

For a demon, and a tortuous snake one at that, it’s surprising how straightforward he can be sometimes:

“I could get along with you a lot better if you backed off,” he says, when Aziraphale excuses himself again to fetch a new pot of tea and another bottle of beer.

“From what?”

“From my angel.”

“Your…?” The old guy has the gall to laugh to his face. “Funny how _demons –_ and he actually finger quotes the word demons _–_ are like humans, often confusing love and possession. Pun intended, by the way. And it never occurred to you that it’s the other way around: he likes me because I remind him of you but with a guilt-free flavor considering your antagonistic natures and the powers that be?”

“Ho.” It’s food for thoughts. Crowley knows, after all, that the remnants of Aziraphale’s guilt at interacting with him are still weirdly present in spite of their relatively new freedom of movement.

Still, when the conversation comes back to the treasures this Adam brought with him that the angel starts to browse in earnest, and raves about, while letting the immortal patting him this way and that… Crowley knows the old guy is doing this on purpose: he crosses his gaze each and every time as if to gloat. The demon can’t stand this any longer. It gets even worse when the angel presents what he has thought he would exchange with his contact and it’s the immortal’s turn to show an enthusiasm on the verge of waxing lyrical that makes the angel positively glow.

It’s not that he’s serious when he says the words. Crowley knows how rare the items in front of them are. But the demon is in a serious need of _venting_ :

“Why couldn’t he order on Amazon instead of coming here? After all the trouble I got planting the idea in people’s mind it was easier to shop from their couch!” Which was only part 1 of his plan to promote generalized laziness. (Bonus point for cardinal sin.) Part 2, cherry on the top, had been the Intellectual Laziness part, as users would only get to discover what a machine called algorithm told them to reinforce their own world view, never being surprised or challenged again! Management downstairs had been, as usual, reluctantly impressed.

Crowley realizes he might have said the wrong thing when Aziraphale’s chubby face starts turning scarlet.

**Aziraphale. (In dire need of being hit by a clue by four to know exactly what’s in his own heart. Still a little bit crueler that Crowley gives him credit for since he may joyfully basks in the knowledge of the demon’s continued desire to hang out with him. Aka love.)**

Fact of life:

_God is ineffable._

Fact of life:

_Crowley is insufferable._ (Except when he is not. Sometimes he is very sweet. If a bit sour. But Aziraphale loves a sweet and sour dish. Usually. But this? THIS?)

Has his voice an apoplectic quality to it when he has digested Crowley’s comment and answers very low at last? No doubt:

“Amazon? You created AMAZON?”

“Yup, that’s my second best laid plan in recent years,” Crowley whispers back with no small amount of self-satisfaction.

And has he _any_ idea of the _heresy_ it _is_ to say that in front of not an angel but an independent little bookseller? Aziraphale feels himself flush.

“What’s the first?” Adam Pierson asks, showing he’s eavesdropping without shame.

“The Brexit! But in my defense, it wasn’t supposed to come to pass, just cause a little mayhem, you know?”

“The Brexit as well? You know I have clients abroad too, right? Case in point!” the angel chokes, his finger pointing to their guest. “Have you ever heard of VAT? When it’s applied it’s going to be murder on margins!”

“Such a capitalist. I’ll make a proper demon out of you,” Crowley tries to joke, feeling the angel is really quite upset.

“Ho, Crowley, **FROUUUUUUUU** you!”

Silence falls on them all. The angel hangs his head in shame. Crowley seems so startled he’s already half out of his chair, gripping the seat’s armrests till his human body’s fingers turn white. The only thing keeping him here is the cat firmly hooked into his lap for all his claws’ worth, all hair on end. Adam’s eyes have quite the distinctive hugeness of the proverbial deer’s caught in headlight. Granted, God must have a great set of lungs.

“Was that… trumpets?” Crowley asks. Which feels a bit like asking if hard rock is sound…

“Divine trumpets, yes,” Aziraphale says, appalled with himself. “An angel can’t curse the name of God,” he primly adds. “Or just curse.”

It kind of makes sense, Crowley muses. Angels love their silly rules of self-restraint. Pretty sure an angel came up with the idea of bondage before a demon ran with it and made it a success among humans…

Still impressive, though. And a bit embarrassing to suddenly remember someone is always watching… Nasty little peeping God.

“Except Gabriel,” Crowley notes. He distinctly remembers Aziraphale telling him exactly what happened up there when he wore his face.

“They’re more lax upstairs in upper management when there’s no mortal around,” the angel admits, having the taste to sound a bit self-conscious about the hypocrisy of it.

“Figures,” Adam weakly mutters, still a little white around the gills. There’s a new light in his gaze when he considers his hosts, now.

“How come I’ve never heard the Trumpets before?” Crowley enquires, curious.

“You’ve never pissed me that much that I had to curse,” Aziraphale pointedly observes.

“Ho.”

“Yes. _Ho_.”

The angel can work a decent, demon-worthy glare. Or maybe it’s his old training of avenging-slash-punishing angel that resurfaces. And here Crowley had thought Aziraphale was never really good at this crap (sorry, his job), considering Whatever Happened to Adam. The first. The one from the Garden…

Very quietly, Crowley reaches for one of the volumes Aziraphale was about to propose Adam Pierson and meekly offers:

“You were saying, Angel?”

But Aziraphale never gets to resume his panegyric of said book. The sound of stuffs collapsing somewhere in the shop interrupts their conversation again.

After a few seconds, Adam Pierson notes:

“Well, you warned us about not shouting lest books fall. But did the divine trumpets _know_?”

Aziraphale has his head bent a little as if trying to determine where in the shop the incident occurred exactly.

“Ha, crap,” the angel says with feeling. And it sounds like the word is too mild to garner a divine reaction. Or maybe the Trumpets learned their lesson.

“Also, I hate to ask, but… Where’s the cat?” Adam continues.

“Ho, don’t worry, it’s right here on my…” Crowley begins. Only the cat is not right here on his knees anymore. Wouldn’t be able to say when the little critter moved off them, even. As the angel would say: “Ho, crap.”

Aziraphale suddenly looks all panicky, looking frantically about him. Even more so than during the Apocalypse, which is quite a feat.

“You’ve lost it? LOST IT?”

And yes, demons are used to be accused of a lot of things, that doesn’t mean they have to like it. So he might be a little mean in his answer:

“You’ve lost your sword and—”

“I didn’t lose it,” Aziraphale primly points. “I made a good deed out of it. I—” But before he can go on, Crowley talks over him:

“—and we’ve lost the Antichrist once, too. Things got all right in the end! It’s a cat! It can fend for itself, I’m sure.”

“Books fall! It could have hurt itself!”

“Yes, books fall,” Adam comments as well, and he looks mildly worried, too. “It’s not a very good death.”

Angel and demon both stare.

“What? What part of _I’m an immortal_ didn’t you get? It happened to me once or twice… Got better though, obviously. But I don’t think you should take the nine lives of cats as literally as my immortality.”

“Maybe I could use a miracle…” Aziraphale suggests, prompting obvious incredulity from his immortal guest.

“Don’t be daft,” Crowley retorts as soon. “God saves, after all. You’re an angel. Shouldn’t you believe that? But ha! It’s true, I’ve just remembered. Like the guy on the Cross, maybe? Is that why you’re not that confident, finally?”

“The _guy_ on the Cross?” Aziraphale sounds appalled.

“Ho, come on, you were there too! Was it glorious? No, it was painful and sad.”

“And it saved _Everyone_. That was the point,” Aziraphale reminds him.

“Not _me_! It hasn’t saved me! And it enslaved a lot. They took his message and made power out of it! What do you have to say for religion, hu? Most of the popes were _ours_ , seriously!”

The outburst saddens Aziraphale, a lot. Because there is none of Crowley’s questions he hasn’t asked himself, honestly. But he has to have faith. It’s what angels do. Even when it hurts. So, they still argue sometimes. Even now that they’re estranged from their respective kinds. And it still hurts.

_“You_ do.” Crowley unexpectedly mutters, a lot calmer. (And a lot sadder.) “Save. Not God.”

“This is blasphemy, Crowley!” And Aziraphale fearfully reaches for the demon, grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him a little, even, almost ready to shut his mouth with the palm of his own hand if he has too. He hasn’t seen any divine smiting for a long time now, and it isn’t a sight he misses. Especially if it has to be the one of Crowley. “I beg you, hush, Crowley. If you love me.”

There is a handful of seconds of blessed silence. But it is one of the truths of Creation that very few things are able to shut up a demon for long.

“Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d known you sooner, Angel, before falling with the wrong crowd,” Crowley very quietly confesses to him, letting his red head gently fall on Aziraphale’s shoulder. And suddenly, it’s so easy to hug him back, the angel finds, pat him softly and tell him _with all the faith in the world_ :

“I’d have caught you before you fell from grace, silly boy. I promise.”

“You _always_ worry too much anyway.” It comes out from the demon’s mouth a bit muffled in the angel’s suit.

“I do not!” Aziraphale protests.

“Ho, come on!” Crowley says, rising his head, suddenly his usual loud self again. “Five minutes after meeting me, you already were mother-henning me! Protecting me from the sun with your wings!”

“Well, the sun’s effect is worse on the color black. What was I supposed to do? Let you roast as if it were hell? And you have _never_ saved me yourself? Always popping up unannounced to rescue me when I got myself in trouble? In France? In Germany? You think I never noticed the pattern? I know you love me.”

There’s something inherently humorous in the way Aziraphale can so easily say the words but sucks at showing he knows it in their everyday life, pushing the demon away more often than he’d really mean to. The angel, sadly, is very conscious of the fact. That also explains the utter surprise on Crowley’s face at hearing his words.

Old habits die hard. Ingrained beliefs die hard. Sometimes they take over without warning. Overriding what you actually feel. You can see it right way in the thunderous expression that settles on the demon’s face:

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. LOVE is a four-letter word. It’s worse than NICE. I don’t do _love_ , Angel.”

The shock on Crowley’s face at his own words…

“Ho, you do. I know. It’s okay, you know,” Aziraphale tries to placate him, relatively unfazed by the outburst he almost expected.

“Angel, are you patting me?” Crowley at last realizes. “I’m not your cat!”

“Maybe he has trained with the cat. Angels are not overly sensual or touchy feely beings by definition, being spiritual and all that…” Adam snarks, making both of them start as if they had completely forgotten about him. (And maybe they had, too involved in each other.) And not only him. “By the way… About the cat…?” their guest continues.

“All right, all right,” Crowley says. “Well, we’ve raised a child together… even if he happened not to have been the real Antichrist, and he turned out mostly alright if cringe-inducingly blunt. It’s not a cat that’s going to defeat us, right, Angel?”

“Right,” Aziraphale replies, obviously perking up.

“Rescue mission it is,” their guest sighs, pulling his longs limbs out of his seat. “No worries, I’m used to being roped into Boy Scout missions, now… Cat in tree, cat in library, potato, potayto…”

“Book _shop_. You’re not taking anything without a fair exchange,” Aziraphale reminds him.

“I’m so bummed right now,” Adam Pierson deadpans.

The angel searches with his eyes the other comic in his life but can’t seem to spot him. Aziraphale finds he doesn’t like that. Is less and less keen to have the demon out of his sight. Odd, that. Crowley has already disappeared in the recesses of the place, looking for the bookslide. Adam makes a vague gesture of the hand to indicate to where they should follow and, a bit out of the blue, comments:

“I like his Bambi legs.”

“Do you mean bandy legs?” Aziraphale tries to decipher.

“No, Bambi. Disney? He looks like he’s not used to walk with them.”

“Ho! He used to be a snake,” Aziraphale indicates in a tone of confidence.

“It’s called a swag!!!” Crowley whispers rather than shouts from further down a aisle to avoid any other incident.

“Wow, you _really_ believe this angel and demon thing. Well, who I am to judge, I’m Death, after all,” Adam flippantly remarks.

“Yes, we are an angel and a demon. And, no, you’re not Death. You don’t talk in capitals.”

They stare a moment at each other.

“Found the catastrophe. But there is no cat in the catastrophe, it seems!” Crowley calls. “It’s a _mess_ , though.”

“That’s good news, Crowley. Sort of.” But then the angel focuses again on his guest. “You heard the Trumpets,” Aziraphale pointedly says, because maybe a tad annoyed. It’s not something you can dismiss. It’s not a sound you hear with your ears. They seem to ring from the depth of your very bones, like a shard of divine truth planted in your marrow.

“But it can’t be true,” the very old guy tells him all reasonable like, very gently, very seriously. (But a bit weakly.)

“Ho, he’s a Thomas,” Crowley sagely nods, back and showing his face again. “It’s always easier to show _then_ tell, with these people.”

“No, Crowley, don’t!” the angel exclaims. Because he knows what’s coming. But the demon rarely listens and his dark wings appear in all their glory before Aziraphale has even finished his sentence.

And, _of course_ wings are not meant for enclosed, cluttered spaces. The sound of more books falling breaks Aziraphale’s heart a little.

“I can’t help but wonder why I trust you in my shop,” the angel mutters in annoyance. It’s not a very well known fact, but Aziraphale has kind of a temper when it comes to certain matters, namely food and books. “You are what you are. I should know, though. Demons do trouble.”

Crowley turns to face him, his large wings obviously mowing even more volumes from the still standing shelves in the move. He looks upset.

“So, you don’t trust me? You _still_ don’t trust me!” But then, all fight seems to leave him, and the change is so obvious, Aziraphale loses his annoyance too at the sight. Problem is, Crowley never shuts up: “Demons are untrustworthy creatures! I don’t even trust other demons myself,” he bitterly notes. If his face doesn’t let show much in term of emotion, his wings are basically twitching with repressed feelings.

“I’m an angel! Of course I don’t trust demons! But you’re different. You’ve had some downs, surely—”

“It’s called _falling_ ,” Crowley snarks.

_“—_ , but I’m here, with you. Once an angel, always an angel. I’ll get you back in Grace even if I have to pull you and do this at the strength of my arms.”

“Stop reminding me I was an angel once, Angel! As if it’s the only way you can justify hanging out with me…” And after a beat, “I’m sorry I made a mess of your place,” the demon says, awkwardly reaching for his phone in his vest in spite of his opened wings and rapidly typing something.

And the angel wants to find the right words, the right move that’ll put Crowley’s usual smirk firmly in place, because a despondent demon is actually an horrible sight to see. He grabs Crowley ridiculous little string tie and pulls on it, a sharp little impatient tug, to get his attention back on him.

“I was _made_ to forgive you, I think,” Aziraphale suddenly blurts, as soon as the divine inspiration strikes him.

Crowley doesn’t smirk. He grins.

**Methos. (The very old guy who has been Death but doesn’t talk in CAPITALS, so probably a fake. Who hasn’t known guilt since the 11 thcentury and isn’t a marriage counselor. No, seriously, he isn’t. Otherwise he would be able to charge for his advices. Tough luck. And maybe some people would listen. Even tougher luck.)**

Methos is five thousand year-old. And, well, it’s only the farther away his memories can go, actually. It tends to get blurry before his first quickening. Being that old should teach you patience. On the contrary, Methos sometimes realizes he’s getting increasingly impatient. Alexa put him back on a human track of time for a while. Duncan, with all the melodrama in his life, keeps him firmly there. Joe, who is not getting any younger, makes him fear it. So, he tends to take things in stride, you know?

Thing is, since he entered the little bookshop, clues are harder and harder to dismiss. All this time, he’s been thinking: weird immortals. Don’t know about the swords, the duels and all that, how original. Not his role to teach them the way of things, he’s not like boy-scout MacLeod who would have dropped everything to take Aziraphale as a pupil the first time he met him in the fourteenth century. Outside of their nice transactions, none of his business, Methos had then thought, feeling the angel’s aura and thinking it just a slightly out of the norm immortal’s one… After all, he’d already left guilt behind three centuries ago, at the time.

He has surprised himself when the word _demon_ set him off like that. Methos hadn’t realized how much Arhiman was still a fresh wound in his mind even after a few years. Crowley calling himself a demon? Showing off his weird lenses? He had wanted to take him down a peg or two, but having him acknowledge the name as if he’d known it? It was pushing the charade too far, so maybe Methos had snapped a little. He’s not proud of that. Maybe that’s why he indulged his two guests without batting an eyelid in their little role-playing, afterwards.

But then, the Trumpets. A sound as fierce as a quickening, coming from seemingly nowhere. Things had started to get harder to explain.

Though old, Methos is not a complicated guy. When Crowley had announced the cat was probably not flattened under heaps of books, he’d simply gone back to his comfortable seat and his miraculously tasty beer.

And then, Crowley proceeded to show and tell him the errors of his way.

Adam falls from his chair when the wings appear. Literally. That he manages to keep his beer bottle mildly vertical and not to spill any of it all over the place must be put to his credit, though. And he looks, more like gorges himself with the otherworldly sight. He hardly listens to the bickering that ensues. All that his eyes follow is the pattern of the light falling on the inky feathers. The soft tremors that shakes them sometimes. It’s beautiful.

So, Methos says so:

“They’re _beautiful_.”

Something in his voice even breaks, his gaze gets a lost quality.

The demon bends his head a little on the side, like it’s so strange to hear this…

“What,” Adam defensively asks. “It’s not something you see everyday.” Which is to put it mildly. It’s not everyday indeed that you can feel wonder after 5000 years.

Crowley looks at him over the rim of his ridiculous little dark glasses, showing his eyes that shine. And how could he have convinced himself for one second these striking irises were actually lenses? Methos has no idea.

“Can I touch them?”

And Methos knows the Adam persona probably doesn’t strike the demon as a guy who can do reverence. He might be wrong on that point. Crowley obliges: one tip of one wing is suddenly at hand’s reach, just under his nose. Methos lifts it softly even closer to his eyes, stroking the delicate feathers.

“Of course, they are,” the angel comments. “Beautiful. Black is beautiful too.” Aziraphale is emphatically nodding his approval.

It does Crowley something, to hear Aziraphale say this. The shiver actually runs to the tip of said feathers. Feeling it under his fingers, the old human throws the demon a knowing, compassionate gaze. Methos knows what it means to be forgiven for what you once were. Maybe he shouldn’t say he _is_ Death. He _once was_. And some people still care about him anyway. (And he is not touching the fact Aziraphale has spoken of Death as someone he knows personally. Nope.)

“When you’re fallen, aren’t you supposed to lose beauty too?” Methos wonders aloud, and would kick himself when he sees the shadow of sadness pass over the demon’s face.

But Crowley pulls himself back together rather fast. He has to give the change, so:

“Nope,” he lies. “How would we seduce, otherwise?” It’s complete with innuendo and leering look in the direction of the angel. It’s plain to see, that one day, he hopes, Aziraphale will take the hint. But he brings his wings back inside, though.

Looking at the absence of feathers between his fingers, Adam only now realizes how weightless they’d felt.

So now, Methos is questioning and re-evaluating all the little nuggets of knowledge he gathered from his hosts, today. There’s one salient intriguing point.

“So, you raised a child together. This one I’ve got to hear,” he says, as their guest. It’s their role to entertain him, after all. Also, he’s a little bit weak at the knees when he regains his seat, he could do with a break. Can’t shake the feeling of déjà vu the sight of the majestic wings brought him.

And, you can tell Crowley thinks it’s actually a good story, you know, when you omit the intense stress of living it, thinking the world is ending, and losing your best friend… So the demon tells it all without much prompting. The eleven years he spent with Aziraphale raising a child that wasn’t the Antichrist (which had been loads of fun, now that he thinks about it) and the rest as well. Reined in sometimes by Aziraphale’s soft coughs when he tries to makes events even more outlandish than they were.

When he’s done, the demon wonders if he has broken their guest. Adam remains silent for a moment, with a slight frown.

“Wait, coming back to the beginning,” the really old guy finally says: “Don’t angels and demons know how to count to three? Or is it a thing with the holy Trinity? Too holy for angels and too awful for demons? What happened to the _third_ child?”

Facing the two beings uncomprehending stares, Adam elaborates, using the few _macarons_ left as visual aid.

“Well, it was a three way shuffle! Antichrist boy (red strawberry _macaron_ ) goes to Tadfield parents. Tadfield boy (brown chocolate _macaron_ ) goes to embassy parents. And embassy boy?” Adam asks, putting in his mouth and munching with gusto a green pistachio _macaron_ to illustrate his point. “He dishappearshs?”

Now, angel and demon are staring at each other.

“The third…? Holy _*humph*_!!!” Aziraphale finds his last word swallowed in Crowley’s hand.

“Trumpets,” the demon reminds as he takes it off the angel’s mouth.

“Trumpets,” Aziraphale fervently nods. “Good call.”

“I don’t do _good_ ,” Crowley reminds as well, a bit on the reflexive side.

“So, what? There’s an eleven year-old unaccounted for?” Adam insists. “I mean… I’m not a boy-scout, I’m familiar with stakes that requires sacrifices, I can do morally grey all right… But I’ve met this nice boy in the train to London from the airport earlier. He was journeying with his adoptive mom. Damn, could that woman Mary Hodges talk your ears off. But her kiddo was sweet, and kind, and very very patient with her. It bothers me a kid just like that got lost in your convoluted plot.”

“Sister Mary Loquacious,” angel and demon say in perfect unison.

“Have you just worked an angelic miracle just now, Angel?”

“No, Crowley, I haven’t. Have you just worked a demonic miracle just now?”

The demon shakes his head in a negative. They both look at their guest with a mostly comforted air, though.

“That kid will be fine,” Aziraphale assures.

“If a little bit on the deaf side,” Crowley amends.

“We’re sure,” they chorus.

“Cheers to that,” Methos says, his spirits raised in spite of himself.

“I need more beer for that,” Crowley notes.

“I’m in,” Methos says, holding up his empty bottle.

“Give me one too,” Aziraphale unexpectedly concurs. “What? I’m in a festive mood! I’m having a nice time with people I like, I’ve just received nice books to add to my catalogue, and the cat is probably alive somewhere…”

Crowley mumbles for the form – You wouldn’t want to see him do a good deed unpunished, right? He’s a demon after all! – but still leaves his chair to get to the angel’s fridge and fetch their alcohol, hiding a slight smirk.

“You need him. Righteous prick,” Methos says, reaching for the last _macaron_ on the plate.

“That’s a bit harsh!”

And Aziraphale doesn’t mean the words. They were not exactly unkind, the way Adam said them. He was speaking of the last sugary confection, obviously.

Methos rolls his eyes a little, more in self-mockery than anything else. Can’t believe he let himself be caught in someone else’s drama. Again.

_“I know you love me,"_ the really old guy mimics the angel. “Crowley knows what he feels. He needs to know what _you_ feel, now.”

The angel sighs. Deeply.

“It’s only our 6000thanniversary very soon, you know? Of the day we met. And he’s going so fast, you know?” Aziraphale mourns.

“Yhea, sure, took him only 6000 years to admit you’re his best friend, as I gathered from his story. He’s _sooo_ jumping the gun.”

“Isn’t he? That’s so typical of demons.” Aziraphale nods in triumph.

Methos stares for a good minute. He’s re-evaluating the depth of Crowley’s commitment, here. Angels sure are dense. No wonder they’re hard to move…

“OK. I get it, 6000 is still too soon.” It’s his turn to sigh. “We’re not done yet…” he observes and then mutters: “Can’t believe I’m counseling again. What’s wrong with me?”

The angel grabs one of the other biscuits left on the table and starts nibbling at it, looking perfectly happy. Totally oblivious of what he puts his demon pal through. Unbelievable.

“Anyway. No man is an island,” Methos tells Aziraphale.

Crowley only catches this last sentence when he comes in.

“Except Noah,” he jokes, putting the three beer bottles on the table.

“It’s a nice rejoinder but with an obvious flaw,” the angel notes. “His family was with him on the Ark.”

“Exactly!” Methos says, “We need to know who our family is! Even in weird disparate ones!”

It’s disheartening a little, how even in five thousand years, you keep running into the same walls again and again. Angels are as bad as mortals. They want to divide the world up into good and bad. Well, it’s not that simple. We are all both. Good and evil. Even demons and angels. And Methos kind of has the feeling Crowley and Aziraphale embody just that. Now, how do you make them understand?And he thought MacLeod was such a pain in the ass! _Ugh_.

Unfortunately for the really old guy, there doesn’t seem to be any _Let There be Light_ moment happening from the angel’s direction. From the demon’s one, on the other hand…

“Ho, forgot. Speaking about weird families. You’ve got mail. It was peeking out of your mailbox when I let myself in earlier,” the demon tells the angel.

Aziraphale makes grabby hands for the envelope the demon pulls out of his vest’s inner pocket.

“It’s from our witch!”

“Of course a demon and an angel have a witch…” Methos mutters. He can feel the headache coming. He slugs his beer like there’s no tomorrow for comfort.

“Ho, Anathema? How is she, our dear little plot Device!” Crowley perks up, reading without shame above the angel’s shoulder.

The message is short but not devoid of affection. It reads so:

_Angel,_

_& Demon, (I’m sure he’s with you.)_

_It appears there were other prophecies in stock._

“Ho my God! An original unpublished work!” Aziraphale exclaims in delight.

_Don’t raise your hopes up. They’re gone now._

“Bummer, Angel,” Crowley says, patting Aziraphale’s shoulder gently.

_This is my rebellion against established laws and predestination. Everyone should have a taste of this once in their life._

“Amen to that,” Crowley mutters. “Listen to the nice lady, Angel.”

_I had a peek, though. Couldn’t help it. And a feeling this one was for you. I suspect Agnes was a matchmaker at heart. Hope you’ll like it. At least you won’t have to steal anything this time._

_Love (indeed)._

_Anathema_

**Prophecy 1215225**

**Some beasts care for the places where they’re neither dead nor alive, and though not lost, like to be found.**

“Got it!” Crowley crows and rushes away, disappearing into the kitchenette again.

Aziraphale and Methos follow him with their eyes then exchange a confused glance. Not only ten seconds later, there is a shout of triumph.

“Ha, found you, you little hell spawn!” Crowley exclaims from the other side of the shop.

He comes back madly grinning and triumphant, holding the yawning fluff incarnate by the scruff of its neck to hand it to Aziraphale with a curtsy.

Aziraphale enthusiastically cuddles the little beast, crooning in its little furry ear:

“Here you are, my little fella! You don’t get to scare me like that! You don’t disappear on the people who love you! You’re mine, now, you know? You’re home here, you don’t need to hide!”

“Baby steps. Cats. Good training,” Methos tells Crowley who looks at the display with mild disgust, envy and fondness battling on his face. The immortal hands the demon his forgotten beer. “Good job!”

“Yes, thank you so much, Crowley!” Aziraphale gushes, still holding the little creature close. “Where was it?”

“Pastry shop’s cardboard box, the one where your macaroons were. On the kitchen sink.”

“Schrödinger!” Methos says and laughs out loud.

Still, since curiosity around the bookshop fortunately didn’t kill the cat, the angel can give into it now and leans over to have a look at the end of the prophecy.

**Now… Kisseth thee him, you idjit.**

“Ho,” Aziraphale says. It’s the softest _Ho_. “Do I? _Can_ I?” the angel even wonders.

“Do you what? Can you what? Angel, speak to me!” Crowley asks, a tad alarmed.

“I miss Greek,” the really old guy says, out of the blue, almost sighing, after managing to get a glance at the letter and the prophecy too.

_“Non sequitur_ , much?” Crowley grouses, because really, what does he even mean!

“That’s Latin,” the angel primly points.

“Never mind,” Methos says with a vague gesture of a hand. “I miss Greek because there was so many words for love. Because love comes in so many kind of forms… And thus people weren’t so traumatized by one L word.”

“Love comes in all kind of forms, yes,” Crowley repeats with a dreamy lilt to it. But it makes him kind of sad too. So many form of love are said to be evil when every demon worth his salt will tell you they’re not.

Then, hearing the demon, the really old guy grins. “Your pal is saying love is ineffable,” he tells the angel.

Aziraphale perks up. “Ho! That’s an interesting syllogism.”

“Do you mean you’re being silly?” Crowley good-naturally ribs. “What’s new under the sun, Angel.”

Methos sighs and tries to steer the conversation again:

“I think he means:

_Love is ineffable._

_God’s way is ineffable._

_Love must be God’s way._

Meaning, no problem for an angel to love a demon.”

Aziraphale’s eyes go huge. Land on Adam, then on Crowley.

He’s saved from further thinking about this by the shop’s little doorbell again.

“Ho, that poor Uber Eats guy has the wrong address again, I guess,” he says, ready to go help the poor wretch, sorry, delivery man.

“Ha, that’s for me, actually,” Crowley corrects, a tad self-conscious. “Surprise! Apology sushis, I guess? For the mess I made in your shop?”

“Ho!” This _Ho_ is resounding and joyous. “I’ll get them.” And there’s a definite spring in Aziraphale’s steps that brings a smile to Crowley’s face.

“You totally pulled that ineffable shit out of your ass, didn’t you?” the demon tranquilly comments once the angel is out of earshot.

“Yup,” Methos says, lounging back in his seat. “No need to thank me. Bullshitting for 5000 years. That’s me.”

“They should have made a demon out of you,” Crowley almost snorts.

“Pass. An angel, though?” Adam jokes. “I’m sure I could do saintly good. Wish I had seen _his_ wings too.”

“Well, if you don’t care for the preservation of your eyes…”

“I heal fast,” Methos comments.

Crowley’s fingers fly to his little glasses. He has a small smile that softens the hard ridges of his angular face.

“His feathers… They smell like… orange blossom and honey,” he quietly shares.

Then, the memory hits Methos like a sledgehammer.

Being a child.

He’s never been able to remember being a child before.

_The water is coming. Like a wall. And he is lost. And alone._

_Then, the bright light of whiteness giving him hope, the softness of feathers giving him protection, and the smell of orange blossom and honey giving him comfort, as white wings engulf him just as the wave hits._

_“Not all of them, Crawly,” he hears a voice mutter above him._

_“Hang on in there, Angel! I’ve got you.”_

_Large dark wings, hiding them from the glare and tears of anger from the dark clouds, pulling them both out of the water._

“Adam?” It’s Aziraphale’s voice, oddly gentle.

“Gotta go, now! Plane to catch, and all that,” Methos says, a little wan, rising from his seat a little less gracefully that he would want to.

Both demon and angel look worried. It’s kinda touching. Even more so, now that he knows what he knows.

“Is it my things?” he asks, knowing perfectly well he’s showing the box where he put the volumes Aziraphale is offering him in return for the ones he brought from Paris.

“But…” Aziraphale fusses. “There’s enough sushis for three!”

“As you proved earlier, you’re not good with trinities, boys. Also! You’ve got a cat to think of! Feed _him_. Sushis, he’ll like them!” And after a bit of reflection and with a hint of glee, the old guy adds: “It’s a boy. Name him Mac.”

“Mac. Mac, Mac, Mac.”

Aziraphale tests the name, again and again, truly ridiculous in his endeavor. Crowley is too busy looking at the angel and his ball of fluff in delight. None of them notices the lanky young-very-old man that makes his way to the shop’s door, grabs his sword too in passing and quietly leaves.

Suddenly the angel brightens up. He cradles the cat up so he can face him more properly.

“Macaroni!” he declares. “I like it.”

“Foodie,” Crowley whispers, fond. Stealing at last a look at the end of Anathema’s letter.

Then the demon realizes, maybe _he_ is the _idjit_ , after all, in this scenario.

Does he go for a kiss while the angel is distracted by his cat calling? Hell, yhea. He is a greedy little demon after all.

***** The END *****


End file.
